I Won't If You Won't
by sylvi10
Summary: Allan and Djaq disguise themselves as women. Of course, only one of them is pretending. Thoughts about perception, identity, and femininity are shared, as well as a friendly, early morning kiss. Written for the Robin Hood Fan Community Gift Exchange Ficathon.


Skirts hitched up to an unladylike height, calves flashing palely in the gray pre-dawn where they appeared in motion between boots and braes, Allan A'Dale raced from the still and quiet Manor House, grander by far than Locksley, with many a backward look toward a non-existent pursuer. A long scarf unwound itself from his hair and trailed behind him as he ran, and he unaccountably held it to his head with the hand that was not employed in hoisting his chemise, as if still intent upon keeping up the disguise. Though as to that, his uncovered face with its carefully trimmed beard, the Adam's apple that pulsed in his throat with each violent intake of air, and the boots upon his overlarge-for-a-woman's feet gave the lie to his poorly assumed woman's identity.

The feminine illusion had lasted just as long as was necessary, and no longer. At the crow of the cock, it had been spoiled, and it was his man's strength and skill that had saved him. Now nearing the safety of the forest, he allowed himself a small, satisfied smile and a shake of his head at Djaq's lack of confidence as he recalled her parting words: "Stay in the shadows. Try not to speak. Or move. And whatever you do, please, do not dance."

He had followed this last instruction, in any case, and his disregard of the others had provided him with a fairly entertaining evening, as well as garnering him the prize of the night—the message from the sheriff they had been meant to intercept earlier in the day and which, due to his own careless indiscretion, they had lost. This subsequent masquerade he half suspected of being Djaq's method of punishment. Although he could not argue with her logic that two outlaws, both male in appearance, who had attempted theft of the treasonous dispatch in the morning would not be recognized as ladies at a party later that same day.

Bosom heaving from his flight, he made his way through the strange trees until he staggered to a standstill at the clearing where they had, the evening before, left their regular clothing. At a rustle of sound, he looked up sharply and just in time to see an unfamiliar silhouette emerge from the deeper gloom of the trees that edged the glade and among whose depths it still appeared to be nightfall.

He knew the figure at once for Djaq but was startled nonetheless, having grown so accustomed to seeing her in shapeless men's clothing that hid her form and enabled her to run and fight like the other outlaws. He had forgotten how last night's transformation had acted upon them both.

Standing there in the bleary, monotonous, disconcerting light, he could only watch, unable to stir or to speak. Something about the manner in which she now moved, almost gliding forward (he later reasoned that this was because he could not see her feet beneath her dress) cast the moment with an otherworldly aspect. He was put in mind of early tales from cradle and hearth, as well as more recent tales of the tavern, both varieties being hazy in his mind, albeit for different reasons. Then there were the campfire stories that Djaq had told them of—what did she call them?—_djinn_, mysterious creatures of Arabic legend.

All that he could recollect of such lore convinced him, ever so briefly and not in his conscious mind but deep in his bones, that she belonged to this veiled season in-between night and morning, and that he himself was an intruder upon her sanctuary who must, though innocent of intent, nonetheless pay the price for his trespass. He half expected her to utter strange words, lay a charming finger upon him, drape a spell over this muted landscape of shadow and deeper shadow. He would find himself forever trapped in a drop of dew, or entangled in a web of fairy's washing, lost out of time and thought to the commonplace world.

It was just possible. Such things, he believed, had happened. There was that cousin of his in Dorchester who had seen a man turn into a frog . . .

Blaming the current fanciful wanderings of his mind on a desperate need for sleep, he rubbed his eyes in an attempt to restore the world to its proper focus. His more rational self was all too aware of the scorn Djaq would feel for him if she were to perceive the superstitious turn his thoughts had taken. It was not so long ago, after all, that Prince Malik had insulted him when he had voiced his doubts about the suitability of the gruesome mask as a peace offering. In so doing he had, apparently, displayed his ignorance, and he was not keen to make that mistake again.

"Allan." Djaq's voice speaking his name brought him back to himself. She sounded impatient, perhaps a little worried, and a good deal suspicious that he might have been enjoying himself a bit too much. She sounded like Djaq.

But she was not _only_ Djaq now. The Saracen slave turned outlaw known as Djaq was, quite clearly, also Saffiya.

Allan blinked away his confusion and, with clearer eyes, took in with pleasure the sight of his friend and comrade-in-lawlessness wearing a gown belted at the waist and falling from her shoulders to her feet—a vision he had been too distracted the night before to give proper attention to. If the sleeves of the dress were a bit long and the bottom of the skirts inelegantly trimmed with a hunting knife, these deficiencies were easily overlooked for the vastly more pleasing details of her collarbone and the smooth uncovering of skin from her throat to her breast. Then there was the half-moon curve of her waist, like the bend of a bow from hip to shoulder. He allowed himself a brief meditation on the imagined repose of his hand just _there_, but did not permit his imagination to stray to the upward drift of his palm, warmed by what was decidedly her woman's body and lured along its effortless contours.

She eyed him dubiously. "Where have you been?" she asked, cutting through his musings with a lift of her chin and a jerk of her head.

"Ran into a spot o' trouble, but I got it." He passed off his momentary speechlessness as the mere gasping for breath and patted his chest proudly to indicate the place of concealment. "Good idea o' yours, pretendin' to be girls," he added, meaning to give Djaq her share of credit in the evening's success.

To his wonder, her pleased expression turned to one of annoyance, and she strode forward and reached for the front of his dress.

Allan swatted her hands away. "Hey, there!" he said, clutching at his person with mock outrage. "None o' that now! I've 'ad to fend off enough men already, an' most of 'em were a sight more gentlemanly than you."

She took a step back, glared at him, and crossed her arms.

"All right," he chuckled to himself as he reached into the bosom of the dress and pulled out various form-enhancing materials. A bundle of cloth, somehow molded into the passable semblance of a woman's bust, fell to the ground and unwrapped itself, revealing the two rounded ends of a loaf of bread. Allan stooped to retrieve one, tore off a piece, and shoved it into his mouth before finally drawing forth and handing over the anticipated missive. "Can't read it myself, o' course," he mumbled rudely, "but that's the sheriff's seal there, innit?"

In the dimness, Djaq had to bring it close to her face, brushing away a few stray crumbs as she did so. After a moment's scrutiny, she nodded eagerly. "Yes, it is. We must bring this to Robin at once. Quickly, let us change."

"I won't be sorry to get out o' this dress," said Allan, fidgeting in the ill-fitting clothing that looked even odder with the surplus of material gaping in front, his now flat chest contrasted by broad shoulders. "Can you untie this for me? 's all knotted, an' it's too tight. I can 'ardly breathe."

"I cannot wait to tell the others what a lovely woman you make," said Djaq with excessive sweetness, adding wickedly, "The blue matches your eyes."

"I'm not bein' funny, but I can see why you want to be a boy," said Allan, looking alarmed but ignoring the threat. "Men! Awful." And he shook his head in disgust.

"I do not want to be a boy," she said as she set to work irritably loosening the ribbon around his waist. "What happened? You were mistaken for a woman by a man with amorous designs?"

"Yeah, well, not for long," he growled.

She released the last of the knots, saying smugly, "I told you you would be too pretty."

Freed from the constricting ribbon, he turned to face her with a troubled expression. "Look," he said, "I'm not some common strumpet or kitchen maid 'ere, am I? But when the Lord o' the Manor catches me outside 'is door, 'e takes it as some sort o' invitation to . . . you know. Thinks 'e can just . . ." He trailed off, finding it almost impossible to put into words for her and relying instead on her quick understanding. "Honestly, Djaq, 'ow do you even put up with it?"

"Not all men are so bad," she soothed. "Not all men will look at a woman and see only one thing." In spite of his seriousness, she could not quite manage to hide the pointed amusement she felt at the irony of Allan A'Dale, self-proclaimed rake and admirer (and more) of women, being confronted in woman's form by a man with but one clear intention.

Allan immediately defended himself. "I'm not like that." Earnestly, he repeated the claim. "Djaq, I'm not."

Relenting**,** Djaq laid a hand upon his arm and nodded. "In your own way, you have respect for women. You would never take what was not freely given."

"That's right," he said with a forceful nod. His eyes dropped to where the hem of her dress skirted the grass, its hue darker below her knees from where it had trailed along the wet undergrowth. Looking back up her again, he said, "Djaq, if I ever insult you or . . . I don't know, act too familiar . . ."

But she shook her head. "I know you too well to be offended, Allan A'Dale. In fact, I think I would be sorry if you ever stopped remembering that I am a woman."

She seemed disheartened as she said it, but perhaps, he thought, she was merely tired, too. His first instinct was to attempt to cheer her with a lie. "I always knew you were a woman."

"You did not," she answered at once with the energy of conviction.

Glad to have roused her at least to argument, Allan went on. "Aw, Djaq, course I did!"

"Oh, really?" she queried with false innocence. "What about the time you were behind the bush and—"

"A joke!" He cut her off abruptly before she could continue with this particular humiliating anecdote. "Just a joke!"

"Or when you tried to show me your—"

He held up his hands in surrender. "All right! So I didn't _always_ know, but I should 'ave."

Allan still regretted that, upon first meeting her, he had not known Djaq for the girl she truly was. They had all assumed her to be exactly as she pretended, and that was fine for the others, but he spoke truly when he said he should have known. Able to appear other than he himself actually was as the need arose, he had likewise always believed that he possessed the complementary talent of detecting what was false in others. It still unnerved him to have been so easily deceived by Djaq. Such a thing would usually be a dangerous mistake in his trade. This time, however, his lack of perception had led only to embarrassment, for the lads had neglected to tell him—once the effects of the black root had worn off, leaving him of sound mind once again—that Djaq was really a girl. The result was a day or so of awkward interactions between the two of them, barely contained snickers from the others, and himself as an unwitting object of amusement.

Lowering his voice, he repeated, "I should 'ave known."

Djaq scoffed at his admission and turned away, disappearing into the trees to change back into her regular boy's clothing.

Allan did the same, quietly retreating to the opposite side of the clearing, puzzled by something in her manner. After a moment's thought he called out to her. "Now then, Djaq! You don't believe for one single minute that we don't all know you're a girl, do you?"

There was no answer, just a whisper of fabric and leaves, but something in the silence that followed seemed like an appeal too big for mere words. He attempted a casual air as he continued. "Nah, it's like this. You're like a daughter to John, yeah? And Much, 'e doesn't know 'ow to act around women, so it's easier for 'im to just keep on pretendin' you're a boy most o' the time. Robin enjoys a pretty woman as well as the next man, but these days 'e's only got eyes for Marian. And me and Will, well . . ."

There he paused, shrugging for his own benefit, and not knowing quite how to go on now that he'd begun this train of thought. His quick mind flitted around myriad possible lies and half-truths, wondering which would provide her with the greatest comfort while still sparing both Will and him from a too personal disclosure. In the case of Will, certainly he had no right to speak of it. And as far as he himself went, Allan usually tried not to acknowledge or understand the muddle of emotions that Djaq stirred in him—everything from protectiveness and friendship to trust and admiration, and things both in between and far beyond that were entirely indefinable.

Grateful to not be having this conversation face-to-face, he finally settled upon the simplest and most honest thing that came readily to mind. "You're our friend, Djaq. Seems like you want us to treat you like one o' the lads, so that's what we do. But don't go foolin' yourself. Not a day goes by we don't know full well you're a girl."

With that he returned to the clearing where Djaq was already waiting, but she did not look up. He bent to lace his boots, and from the corners of his eyes he watched as she wistfully fingered the folds of the dress she had worn just moments ago, finally letting it slip from her hands to the grass at her feet.

In so many ways, Djaq confused him entirely, and right now was no exception. She dressed and behaved like a man, resented most reminders that she was a woman, was quick to take action in order to prove herself and even quicker to take offense. This baffled Allan, who saw very little wrong with being a woman in the first place. In the second place, Djaq was more capable, in almost every way that mattered, than most men he knew. But here she was now, pining for this dress she had just dropped on the ground.

It was enough to make him feel that the world was off-kilter. Out of balance. Not wrong, exactly, but not quite right either. Maybe it was due to lack of sleep, or their separation from the gang and anything else that might be grounding and familiar. Maybe it was the time of night—or rather, time of day—with its tugging undercurrents of something like enchantment.

Struggling against a sudden sense of vertigo, he straightened carefully and turned toward her. Swallowing hard, he said, "Not to mention, you're the smartest, bravest, most beautiful girl either of us 'as ever seen."

Finally she glanced up at him, and never had he seen her so proud and vulnerable all at once. She stood with shoulders squared and feet firmly planted, looking for all the world as if she would speak but finding no words, and not knowing quite where to rest her gaze or her now empty hands. Her uncertainty at that moment and her willingness to share it with him—or perhaps her inability to hide it from him—shattered something near to his heart, and he felt his chest loosen and warmth flow through his limbs as if his blood had turned to heated honey.

The first bloom of sunrise filled the little clearing as, with an almost physical jolt, the earth seemed to right itself again, and with no awareness or sense of movement, he found himself carried forward until the distance had closed between them.

Had he stopped to think before bending to kiss her—which certainly he had not—he would most likely have expected her to push him away, or maybe even to slap him. It would not matter so long as he was able to restore the balance in their friendship, to give her the upper hand, so that it was she who was knowing and superior once again. Almost no price seemed too high to pay in that moment, even her fury. It would be short-lived anyway; she always forgave him.

What he did not expect was for himself to so greatly enjoy this act of offering, with no thought beyond the giving of comfort. Nor did he expect his artless kiss to sweeten into something so unbearably gentle. It was almost chaste, as innocent as the nearly always pleasurable meeting of mouths could be. He held his body at a distance, did not so much as rest a hand upon her hip or slip an arm about her waist. The only contact between them was of their lips, his ever so lightly upon hers, and she responding with the same cautious pressure.

Then he straightened and pulled away, stepping back a pace to meet and hold her gaze. The kiss had lasted no time at all, mere heartbeats, all the time in world that it must take for nothing to change between them and for everything to revert to its normal state of being.

Djaq was smiling at him, thoughtful, slightly calculating, and wonderfully familiar.

"Wot?" he said, her knowing look throwing him back into a more customary state of vigilance.

She answered slowly, "Perhaps I will not tell the others about you dressing as a woman." There was a rise in her voice at the end of this statement, as if there was still some doubt in her mind, her initial offer being only one half of a bargain. It was followed by a meaningful pause, during which Allan waited for what would likely be the less satisfactory, to him, part of her proposal. "And perhaps you do not wish to tell them about—this." She did not articulate what had just occurred between them, but swept her hand toward him as if the gesture itself could interpret romance, intimacy, a kiss.

He relaxed, back on well-trodden ground where Djaq was concerned. "I won't if you won't," he said, raising one eyebrow.

They gathered up everything but the dresses, which they wordlessly agreed to leave behind them in the glade. There they lay, empty and cold, as if their owners had indeed been spirited away by the _djinn_ and the fairies, these discarded garments the only remaining evidence of the people who once existed in them, however briefly.

Allan reflected that, in its own way, this was even some small part of a greater truth that had passed here. For as he bid farewell to his newfound competence at passing for a woman, he also parted from Saffiya, a woman he had only just met. Though now that he had glimpsed her, he was convinced that there would always be something of Saffiya present in Djaq, hidden just beneath her boyish appearance, her prickly demeanor. The two were not so far apart as she might want others to believe, as she herself might wish to believe.

But it was most definitely Djaq who walked by his side now, taciturn and setting a determined pace. He wouldn't have it any other way.

With this acknowledgment, Allan's step became more sprightly than anyone as tired as he should be capable of, and he found himself looking forward to the keeping of these secrets between Djaq and himself. An echo of her voice sounded in his head, speaking their agreement, and each footfall accented the words in his mind: _I won't if you won't. I won't if you won't._


End file.
